Wanting Memories
by BookwormExtraordinary
Summary: It's Valentines' Day and John is alone. He loves Sherlock, but Sherlock could never love him. Oneshot. Based on true events.


John couldn't quite put his finger on where he had gone wrong. He knew it had been somewhere during the first eight days of their relationship. Well, not really _relationship_. More like, _flatmateship_. Either way, on the ninth day, he had been following Sherlock down an alley when the taller man had whirled on him and given him a strict, serious look.

"John," he began. "Just so you know, nothing you have done has made me think this is going to be a problem. It's just that I have had problems with this in the past." John's stomach began to ache. What was going through Sherlock's mind? "Make sure you don't fall in love with me." John's insides stopped aching, per se. Instead he just felt as if the detective had shoved him off a cliff. He struggled to keep a straight face. "Keep your hormones in check," the man instructed.

John had only nodded and agreed at the time. Following Sherlock out of the alley, all he could think about was the oddity of that conversation and what it might mean for the future.

After that, it was very difficult to ignore the blossoming feelings in his chest whenever Sherlock was around. Sherlock, of course, continued on being Sherlock: ignoring him whenever convenient and taking his presence for granted.

It was the brilliance, he decided as he pondered what drew him in the direction of Sherlock Holmes. He had been attracted to men before, but never like this—never with this intensity of emotion. He didn't simply want to shag Sherlock, though he was sure it would be an experience. He wanted to spend long evenings debating with him over which classical composer was better. He wanted to finally, _finally_, have that man's full attention, even if only for a few moments. He wanted to have discussions over obscure linguistics and arguments over Cluedo. It was more than companionship, though. When Sherlock had fallen asleep on his shoulder during the long cab ride back from a far-off case, he had just watched him. He had memorized the curve of his ear and the shape of his nose. He had fantasized about kissing him and had found himself leaning down more than once before freezing, imagining the pyrotechnics that would result.

Sherlock didn't like boys.

During one afternoon conversation, Sherlock had brought up the subject of the sort of people he was attracted to. Mrs. Hudson was visiting and—"not your housekeeper!"—making a pot of tea in the kitchen, muttering to herself about "heads" and "toes" and "not my poor butter dish". She ambled back into the sitting room as the conversation turned.

"Mrs. Hudson has been trying to divine who I like for ages," the genius started as he accepted his cup of tea from the landlady.

"At first I thought it was you, dear," she said to John. His heart skipped and began to jump about some more. Did Sherlock like him?

"But that's impossible, since I'm straight," Sherlock finished. The fluttering and flip-flopping in his abdomen abruptly ceased and then began again, this time the familiar falling feeling.

It was after this that John began to see how Sherlock's tastes ran. They had remarkably similar taste in women: tall, dark-haired, musical, and brilliant. John tried not to notice that Sherlock also possessed each of these traits, while he lacked them. He tried to forget about his fleeting attraction to the detective, but that was a bit difficult when he lived in close proximity to him. Eventually, John just accepted that his heart was going to get broken.

He just didn't reckon how much it would hurt.

It wasn't that Sherlock got a girlfriend. Heaven forbid, no. It was just the quite oblivion that did it. Sherlock's ignorance of John's feelings was the worst. John prayed that when he eventually found out, it wouldn't end badly. He mentally compared that reaction to the nuclear meltdown at Chernobyl—permanent and deadly to all who dared step within a hundred miles. No matter how many times he told himself it would not end well, he still found himself, mind wandering, picturing the many ways it could go. How Sherlock would react positively to John's kiss—because that's the way to do it. His restraint was just going to snap one night and he would give in to his instinct and kiss the man.

The worst part was that everyone knew. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Stamford. Everyone knew how John felt and the futility of that feeling. Sherlock's tastes were well-known among friends. It was hard to tell, sometimes, if Sherlock was as oblivious as he seemed. Had he figured it out? Had someone told him? Staring into his eyes some nights, he couldn't tell which was truth.

It was Valentines' Day. How he hated the holiday. Not usually. Usually it was more of a slight distaste as he contemplated his lack of romantic attachment. Not today. Today was different because of Sherlock. It was his first Valentines' Day with the man and all he knew he would be able to think about was the fact that the genius beside him was beyond his reach.

Valentines' Day was by far the most depressing holiday.

* * *

A/N: This is based on events in my own life. My problem is somewhat the opposite of John's. The guy I like is gay and I am alone on Valentines' Day. Just a bit of V-Day angst projected on our favorite TV couple.

The title is that of a song we sang in choir. The words are:

_I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me,_  
_to see the beauty in the world through my own eyes. (x2)_

_You used to rock me in the cradle of your arms,_  
_You said you'd hold me till the pains of life were gone._  
_You said you'd comfort me in times like these and now I need you,_  
_Now I need you, and you are gone._

_I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me,_  
_to see the beauty in the world through my own eyes._  
_Since you've gone and left me, there's been so little beauty,_  
_But I know I saw it clearly through your eyes._

_Now the world outside is such a cold and bitter place,_  
_Here inside I have few things that will console._  
_And when I try to hear your voice above the storms of life,_  
_Then I remember all the things that I was told._

_I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me,_  
_to see the beauty in the world through my own eyes. (x2)_

_I think on the things that made me feel so wonderful when i was young._  
_I think on the things that made me laugh, made me dance, made me sing._  
_I think on the things that made me grow into a being full of pride._  
_I think on these things, for they are true._

_I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me,_  
_to see the beauty in the world through my own eyes._  
_I thought that you were gone, but now I know you're with me,_  
_You are the voice that whispers all I need to hear._

_I know a please a thank you and a smile will take me far,_  
_I know that I am you and you are me and we are one,_  
_I know that who I am is numbered in each grain of sand,_  
_I know that I've been blessed again, and over again._

_I am sitting here wanting memories to teach me,_  
_to see the beauty in the world through my own eyes. (x2)_


End file.
